


The Season to Be Honest

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Celebrations, Christmas Eve, F/M, Family, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: The Ventures have a Christmas Eve party. Set during or after season 7.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly going to be petebilly with some other stuff peppered in. But I don't really have a plan. It's about the Ventures trying to understand life and love. Idk. I've had a wine spritzer don't @ me

People remark about how quiet the snowfall makes New York as if snow isn’t a sound dampener everywhere you go. Back at the compound it had been the same. Just colder. Couldn’t afford to crank the heat back then, standing lonesome in his robe and slippers, clutching close his cup of coffee to his bony chest. Trying to find it beautiful, the pristine white blanket that lay strewn across his property. His _ father’s _ property. It used to decorate that old statue, as if anything could cover up that legacy.

But these days the thermostat is cranked up, the lights are bright. He’s got the softest of sweatpants on. Going commando because it’s just that warm. Athleisure-wear, that crap the kids are wearing these days. It’s just an excuse to be lazy in public. 

This time he’s got a concoction of his own design. Hot cocoa, kahlua, and a candy cane to stir. He’s gotta think of a name before Billy and White get there.  _ The tipsy snowman. No, no, the polar twist _ . He sips it and sighs. Christmas Eve has never brought him any joy, now that he thinks about it. Even as a child, that happiness came with a price. All those toys...what he would have given for just  _ one _ day where nothing happened. But it was always too much to ask.

He supposes everyone is right. It is odd to look out upon New York City and hear nothing at all. All the sound is coming from his faux-fireplace, from the soft music playing from his speakers. No Christmas music. He hates that shit. The only one who likes it is Dean. That kid’s still a romantic, even after all the shit.

And he misses the boy. He’d never say it aloud, but sitting at the breakfast table, even warmed by Brock’s ever-heavy presence and Hank’s exuberance, it feels a little empty.

He fills the void in order to ignore it. He bites the pointy end of his candy cane and then drops the rest back into his mug.

He sees himself from outside. Billy says that’s called _ dissociating _ , but it sounds like a load of bullshit. He sees himself, poor posture before the tall and wide window that overlooks the city and his roof. A worm of a man, covered in cotton and terry cloth, soothed by liqueur and sweets. Did his brother ever do this? His father? Take a moment to drink in their sights like an empire? 

He’s sure they did. Then why is it so hard for him to feel proud about it? Maybe if he could see himself from the inside. Maybe if he could live in himself. But all he can do is be Rusty Venture. The monument, the caricature. He can see his reflection in the window, and know it’s him, but not know what that means. He watches himself lift the mug back to his lips, watches himself get too tipsy before the party even starts.

The ringing of the elevator’s arrival gives him some manner of pause, and he lowers his drink and turns toward the sound. He hears the familiar sound of a lovers’ quarrel as the doors slide open. They just don’t know that’s what it is yet, the idiots.

“Well maybe if you hadn’t insisted on that ten-dollar wrapping paper, it wouldn’t be such a big deal if it got a little wrinkled, huh fella?”

“It’s for Rusty! I wanted it to be nice…”

“That why my gift was taped up in a buncha newspaper last year?”

“It’s the thought that counts…”

The two exchange a stern, if tired, glance, and then set sound their piles of presents next to the towering Christmas tree.

“Jeeze. Overcompensating or somethin’, Rust?” Pete asks, neck craned to see the top of it. There’s a star up there. No angels in this household. He doesn’t believe in that crap.

“Oh ha-ha,” Rusty says, a hand on his hip, walking over to them. “You know that’s not true.”

“Ew, do ya gotta bring that up? It was one time.” Pete frowns as he unstacks the gifts one-by-one. “I’ve repressed the memory, anyway.” Poor young Pete, walking in on Rusty during a moment of...lonesome passion. 

Rusty withholds any comments about repressed memories, knowing Billy would just try and send him to therapy again. Instead, ever a saint these days, he puts down his drink and helps them arrange everything.

“Half of these are from my mother and Col. Gentleman’s latest shopping spree,” Billy says, as if he’s lamenting. “Expect a lot of oven mitts and brooches.”

“Don’t talk shit about brooches…” Pete mumbles, making his way over to the bar. Rusty smiles fondly, only because he knows Pete won’t see it. A man after his own heart, heading straight for the booze.

“Let me make you my latest creation!” Rusty boasts, shuffling over with his mug held proudly in the air. “I call it... _ Rudolph’s Revenge _ ...” He shoves the mug in Pete’s face, offering him a sip, and his friend grimances in apprehension.

“...there’s not like….a dead reindeer in there, right?”

“Just drink it,” he insists, holding it under Pete’s nose. The smell will get him, that’s for sure. He waits with bated breath for approval, and does a sort of half-assed victory dance when Pete actually likes it. If Pete likes it, Billy will like it. That’s something Rusty decided a long time ago. So he makes two.

“Where are the boys?” Billy asks, shuffling over to the bar to climb up onto a stool. 

“Should be here soon. Hank has a date,” Rusty says, much to the  _ ooh _ -ing of his friends, “and Dean wanted to finish up some of his winter break reading.”

They toast, they grin. The boys are technically adults now, but the three of them still need their grown-up time.

“Where the uh.. _.hunk? _ ” Pete jests, snorting into his drink. Idiot already chugged half of it. Rusty shoots him a disapproving, if not terrified, glance.

“Shut your entire mouth or fill it with more Kahlua,” he demands, keeping his gaze fixed on him while he drinks down the rest of his mug. “ _ Brock _ is finishing up some OSI business. He’ll be here later.”

Pete shrugs, and Billy, ever eager to get himself buzzed, giggles into his drink. These two...Rusty eyes the mistletoe hanging from the eaves. He’ll have to beat them to that prank if he’s to make it out of this night with his pride in tact.

But still...the hunk. He wishes he were there already. Refusing his doc-tail. Drinking a beer instead. They could team up to make fun of those silly sweaters Pete and Billy are wearing, no doubt knitted with care by Rose. Speaking of, he should change into something that is not pajamas.

“You boys will have to excuse me,” he says, rather dramatic, and then he places his mug in the sink. “Need to slip into something a little more comfortable…”

“I said I didn’t wanna see it again, Rust!” Pete calls after him. The sound of the oblivious lovers’ laughter follows him into the hallway as he disappears to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I grew up without being allowed to celebrate any holidays so writing christmas stuff is hecka weird for me??? But at least i can approach it with the same bitterness as Rusty. Maybe if I write this I won't get my yearly holiday depression! It's called #selfcare
> 
> Comments are always appreciated. I love this fandom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean arrives at the Venture party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theeventsofTheForecastManufacturerdidnthappeninthisok--

 

He’ll be scolded for his footwear. Chucks in the snow, soaked already, through-and-through. He dreads the mildew that will stink up his dorm room. It’s bad enough having two dudes in one place. It was different when it was him and Hank. They were lucky not to sweat so much back then.

He’s too cold for the sweat on his temple, like nerves. As if he hasn’t spent years with these people. But now he’s grown, and he wonders what they expect from him. Well, he knows what his father expects. And Dean hates the satisfaction he feels, knowing he can’t measure up. If he’s brave enough, he’ll talk proudly to Mr. White about his music history elective. Is he allowed to call him Pete now? And what about Billy? He’s always called Brock by his first name. Is he old enough to call his dad by his first name? When does  _ he _ become old enough to be _ Mr. Venture _ instead of Dean?

His reverie fills the time, and he arrives at the tower fashionably late. He’ll blame it on the subway. He’ll make some joke about the R train. R for rare. That will make him a grown up.

He suffers a long, apologetic, suffocating hug from Uncle Hatred before he’s allowed to go up to the penthouse with his heavy reusable shopping bag full of gifts. 

He arrives at the top floor and involuntarily rolls his eyes. He’ll never be _ such  _ a grown up he gets drunk at 5 PM and dances to Steely Dan. But his dad and his friends are already there.

“Hi Pop,” he calls, setting down his bag. His father holds up his arms, looking glad to see him. He watches, a timid smile on his face, seeing those skinny limbs amble on over for a hug.

“D’aw…” He hears Mr. White mooning into his cocktail in the background.

“You sap.” Dr. Whalen, being snide. But Dean’s seen them, in the lab. He knows it’s not all ridicule. It’s...sweet. His dad got drunk once and told him his theory about how they’re.. _.knocking boots, _ as he put it. No wonder he’s so lonely, talking about it that way.

Not that Dean can claim otherwise. He knows Hank will be bringing Sirena. He can’t quite call it jealousy, what he feels. He doesn’t want a relationship for the sake of being able to say he’s in one. He just wants to smile the way they do when they hold hands.That, and worse things…

“Hello young Dean!” Mr. White shouts, holding up his glass in what Dean is sure is not the first toast of the evening. “Going stag like your old man?”

His dad folds his arms then, turns toward his friend with a deadpan look.

“Does that mean you’re here with a date, White?”

That’s effective. That shuts him up. Dean smiles involuntarily to feel his father’s arm over his shoulder. It’s funny how he’s missed it, and he wonders if he should. Or if it’s just familiar. And yet, there’s something different about his dad this time. A gentleness, a grinning, and it’s not just the booze. Dean can always tell. His father’s skinny hand wraps more solidly around him than it used to.

“What can I get you, boy?” he asks, rounding the bar.

“Um...cream soda?”

“None of that. You’re a man now, Dean. I’ll make you a doc-tail.”

“Don’t torture the kid!” Dr. Whalen shouts from his spot by the fireplace. “Give him a...a wine spritzer…”

Dean turns and gives him a thankful glance. He knows well enough by now to avoid his father’s creations. 

But he smiles as he watches him mix wine and seltzer, a wedge of lime and some ice cubes. There’s an unavoidable tenderness he feels for his dad. Jared says it’s Stockholm Syndrome. He took _ one _ psych class and all of a sudden he’s an expert… but Dean can’t tell him he’s wrong. But he also can’t help but hold out hope that his father can be good. That he’s been good all along, somewhere in there.

“Dean…” his father whispers, sliding the stemless glass across the bar. “You want in on my plan?”

“Plan?” Dean leans closer. The mischief is like sense memory.

“I have three sprigs of mistletoe at our disposal, boy. It’s happening.” He presses a finger to the bar. “Tonight.”

“Them?” Dean asks, trying to subtly indicate Mr. White and Dr. Whalen, giggling like schoolchildren as they draw on the foggy window with their fingers. “Do you think they’ll fall for it?”

His dad grins as he pops the cork out of another wine bottle. 

“Trust me, Dean. This has been in the works for a long time.”

They tap their glasses together and begin discussing the logistics. 

“...and then Brock is going to strong-arm them into the same spot--”

“Will he be here soon?” Dean asks, brave from a few sips of his spritzer, enough to interrupt his father while he’s talking.

“I...yeah…” He looks to the large clock on the wall. “Should be.”

Dean curls his toes within his still-wet sneakers. Maybe Pete and Billy won’t be the only ones trapped in a compromising place tonight. There, he can say it. First names. All it took was some watered-down pinot grigio. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written from Dean's perspective before hoooooooo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romantic tension and some Springsteen, because that's just who I am. Originally the 3rd chapter was supposed to be from Hank's perspective, but I couldn't stop myself from yeeting that Pete White content your way.

 

Pete holds the hot mug between his pale hands, desperate as a hobo to keep warm despite how high the heat is cranked. He’s glad of their proximity, his and Billy’s, how they cluster like lost children no matter where they go. Even here, one of their most familiar places. He loves to deny that it’s just them. That they  _ have _ to stand close, or it feels like something’s wrong. 

“This isn’t bad,” Billy admits, stirring his doc-tail with the candy cane. “For once.”

“A Christmas miracle,” Pete says, holding the hot drink close to his lips. 

They’re looking cozy in their hand-knit sweaters, courtesy of Rose. Pete’s just glad they don’t match or say some hokey shit like “his” and “his.” Because she  _ would _ do that. Last night had been their early gift exchange, and she took so many photos. After a few glasses of wine, the lying got easier. Or maybe, if he can admit it, it got easier to _ want _ to lie. To hold Billy’s hand or toss an arm around his shoulder. To wrap a scarf around both their necks and grin. Rust says it’s not a lie if you act like it’s true. That’s stupid, for a scientist.  _ This isn’t about science, _ Rust told him. _ It’s.. _ **_.chemistry_ ** . 

“Hey what did you get for Rusty?” Billy asks, carefully looking at the good doctor to make sure he’s too involved with his son to notice them talking about him.

“None of your business, fella. You just wanna know if I outdid you or not.” He grins, turning toward the wide window. Snow is so much easier here than it had been at the trailer. They only have to shovel a few steps, and the heat never breaks. Someone plows the road for you. Someone tells you when it’s too icy. And at home, when it’s expected, it’s easier to huddle close together for warmth. “A new lab coat, if you gotta know. With secret pockets, and embroidered.”

“Damn you, White. He’ll love that.” Billy pouts, squinting up at him.

“Why d’you care so much, anyway?” Pete despises how offended he sounds, how almost _ jealous _ his tone is. “You don’t have to brown nose anymore, Billy.”

“It’s not that. We owe him a lot, don’t we?”

Pete turns, one arm folded across his chest, the other supporting his drink. Rusty’s over there, monologuing to Dean about whatever the fuck. He supposes they  _ do  _ owe him. These jobs, this place to come to. The advice on how to be heroes, even if it just involves them getting shot by Brock.

“Yeah…” He takes a stifling sip of his drink. Billy’s gift isn’t under the tree. It would be too much of a show for everyone, to watch him open something so sweet, so thoughtful. Pete’s got it in his pocket, instead. He keeps patting it, making sure it’s there. He likes to think he did a good job of faking Billy out the night before with those socks, that tie. That’s not something you get the person you...your  _ person _ . He’s not quite figured out how to say it. 

“Boys!” Rusty calls from behind the bar. “Come toast with us. Or you’re fired.”

They roll their eyes, but they grin, shuffling over to the sunken lounge to sit. Side-by-side, in their usual spot. Drifting closer every visit. Maybe Rust keeps buying smaller couches…

“Shouldn’t we wait for Hank? And Brock?” Dean asks, gazing into his drink. 

Rusty shakes his head and waves his hand.

“They’ll get another one. This one is for my two friends here.”

“Aw, Rust, ya don’t have to--”

“Shut up, White, before I change my mind.” He coughs and raises his glass into the air. Pete watches how his arm sways. Already tipsy. He has a premonition of sorts, sees Brock carrying the poor bastard bridal style away from the party because he’s had too much. “This is not easy for me to say, because well…”

“Because you’re an asshole,” Pete interjects. Rusty points a finger at him to tell him he’s right.

“Because I’m an asshole. But all this…” He spreads his arms to indicate the penthouse, it’s luxury. “Couldn’t stay afloat without you guys. Guided, of course, by my  _ expertise-- _ ” He presses a hand to his chest.

“Pop, you ruined it,” Dean scolds gently. “You were so close.”

“The point is, he tried,” Billy says, lifting his glass in turn. “Thank you, Rusty.”

Pete downs the rest of his cocoa, feeling light in the head from the heavy amount of kahlua Rusty apparently tricked him into drinking.

“We love you too, Rust~” he says, grinning wide to ease the gravity of it.  _ We _ , of course. Because they’re a  _ them _ .  _ We _ have cut out most carbs.  _ We  _ are going to the opera to try and be fancy.  _ We _ are thinking of getting our own place in Brooklyn… 

“Alright, that’s enough of that. I can feel us barrelling toward a marathon of the  _ Bridget Jones _ movies. Let’s get back to the party.” Rusty slaps Dean on the back and stands up, practically dancing over to the stereo. “How about a lil’ bit of  _ The Boss? _ ” he asks, though everyone knows it’s certainly not an actual question.

They drift to the bar. They pour some wine. They find themselves in the doorway that leads to the rest of the penthouse, stopping only in their banter to wave at the new arrivals to the party. Hank with that new girlfriend of his. Orpheus and the gang, some of the OSI guys. All of them seem to smile in their direction like they know something.

The pleasant litany of _ I’m On Fire _ sneaks in, then. Pete grins. He used to play this on the radio. Used to lean back in his chair and wonder what it’s like to feel that way. What it’s like to burn about someone. 

He knows it, but he won’t say it. Even though the lights are dim. Even though they’re illuminated only by the strings of bulbs hung from the rafters, even though the song is so damn romantic it could make him cry. There’s a quiet moment between them, their bickering paused in favor of a soft exchange of smiles. 

Pete feels his chest grow heavy. Odd nerves. Like he’s never stood in a doorway before. Like he’s never heard  _ I’m On Fire _ after three drinks before. He downs some more of his wine and places the glass on the nearby window ledge. Over by the bar, Hank twirls his girlfriend beneath his arm. The smiles on their faces make his ears feel numb. To feel that way...

“Ya gonna...dance with me or what?” he asks, punctuated by fidgeting. He refuses to make eye contact as he holds out one pale hand for Billy to take. Or not take.  _ Jesus Christ, Springsteen _ , making him all moony. And that new, fervent, teenage love that shines in the middle of the party like a beacon. Like a lamp for his dumb moth-ass to float to.

“Yeah.” He’s surprised to hear it, and he jumps a little to feel a hand in his. Smallish fingers sliding across his palm. “But only because everyone else is…”

It’s true. They’re all different shades of tipsy and elated. Like the snow makes them high, like the holiday spirit means a damn thing.

“Right...it would be weird if we were the only ones--”

“We’d never hear the end of it from Rusty.”

“Exactly…”

But of course, the song can only last so long. It fades as they approach the group, and it seems the playlist is over.

Now they’re just two guys, holding hands in silence in a room full of people. It’s not the first time, of course; they’ve had this charade going for some time. But Pete could do without Hank’s giggling.

They cough and stuff their hands back in their pockets. 

He swears he hears Shore Leave gloating somewhere in the room, and The Alchemist’s scoffing.

“You owe me five dollars.” 

The elevator rings and they all turn their heads. Brock, finally, looking worn out from whatever business he’s been on. Pete is willing to bet it involved killing a bunch of guys.

“Great! Now we can eat!” Rusty shouts, clasping his hands together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foiled by the Greatest Hits Collection. This is why we don't buy Best-Ofs.
> 
> jk best-ofs are fun

**Author's Note:**

> It took all of my strength not to title this "make the yuletide gay"


End file.
